"Yngve, A R - Alien Beach" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yngve A. R)
Chapter Eight
DAY 56
УYou wonТt believe your eyes, Carl,Ф Stone said as he shoved the thinner, older man into the electronics lab barrack. УWe stayed up all night working with this - couldnТt sleep, the results were too exciting.Ф The six meters long, three meters wide space was crammed with sensitive electronic measuring devices. Stone indicated an oscilloscope on one table, which Takeru had connected to a computer terminal. УIТll replay it again, but slowing it down a million times,Ф Takeru said from his seat at the terminal. УEach second youТll see in the oscilloscope, corresponds to one millionth of a second as I recorded the blue glow. Now watch carefully.Ф He typed in a command on the keyboard, and the playback fed into the oscilloscopeТs fluorescent cathode-ray screen. On the dark screen was projected a swarm of dancing green lines, making wave-patterns that resembled nothing Carl had ever seen during his years in astronomy. Waves of low energy, interlocking, so many that they formed a moving blur. УI recognize the frequency of those waves,Ф he said, staring fascinated at the screen. УThatТs the ultraviolet and blue light, falling and sinkingЕ the glow flickered, but so fast the naked eye couldnТt see it. These patternsЕ so complex!Ф Takeru nodded, and said: УThen consider the other readings we picked up later that night. In the excitement I almost forgot the mass spectrometer I had rigged up. I was going to examine the weather changes with it...Ф
УAnd?Ф УGet this,Ф Stone interrupted. УNo mass. The mass spectrometer was scanning the entire beach at the time. We used a battery of twenty photocells and lasers, enough to register an object as small a fly passing by. Brilliant Japanese hardware that Takeru brought with him. УFrom the area around the Sirian antenna, they registered all objects that crossed the beams, the numbers were fed into TakeruТs computers, and crunched with the known masses of objects on the beach. Us, the trees, the SiriansЕ even the weight of the air was calculated. Easy stuff for Takeru.Ф Takeru, showing little of his pride, explained: УBut the spectrometers registered no solid object at the source of the blue glow, except the Sirian antenna itself and the air. And the antenna was not emitting any significant energy when the blue glow appeared. It was almost cold - slightly above room temperature. If the antenna had emitted that blue glow, the tips would have become so hot weТd register it. But it didnТt.Ф Carl felt dizzy, and found a chair to slump down into. Stone served them some coffee. УTeleportation,Ф Carl said finally. УThat could be the answer. The Sirian antenna could be a teleportation receiver, not a transmitting device. Teleporting an energy signal from somewhere else in spacetime. Instantaneous communication.Ф УYou mean, instant messages from other Sirians?Ф Stone asked. УFrom their mothership, from their homeworld?Ф УAmazing,Ф Takeru muttered to himself in Japanese. This invention could revolutionize the world if it came into human hands. He did not say it, but he was already thinking that his employers had to get the blueprints of the machine first. He would have to take X-ray photographs of the antenna contraption, and make copies for quick smuggling back to Japan. Takeru wasnТt thinking of money, but of glory and a compelling sense of duty to his nation. Another part of him, a suppressed part, called him a corporate whore who betrayed his own scientific passion. Takeru shut his eyes hard for a moment, pushing that part deeper into his mind where it could be held in check. УTake a rest, Takeru,Ф said Carl. УYou deserve it, youТve done great. The team needs you tomorrow, too.Ф
УThank you,Ф said a part of Takeru.
DAY 57
Bishop Edmund Soto of the South African Anglican Church, another famous face, waved goodbye to the crew of the U.S.S. Powell and the handful of civilian and official passengers. "God bless you all!" he boomed benevolently at them from the staircase.
Then he stepped into his waiting motorboat and took off toward the nearby Alien Beach. The heavily built, very dark-skinned bishop wore light tropical clothes and a straw hat, and might have been a tourist - if it hadn't been for the crosier in his hand, and the single episcopal vestment draped over his large shoulders. A couple of suitcases at his feet contained his clothes and personal belongings. Soto sat down at the side of the boat's rail, opposite an American naval officer, who was to carry protocol when Carl Sayers received Soto into the ECT colony on the small island. "Are you nervous, sir?" the officer asked over the boat noise. Soto replied with a wide grin. "Absolutely terrified!" he laughed self-deprecatingly. "Is it true that theseЕ Sirians are taller than humans?" "That's right, sir. About six feet on the average. Haven't seen any children of theirs though." "Has anyone been allowed to meet them underwater yet - in their ship?" "No, sir - they haven't made much communication yet. We're sort of waiting for them to make the first move." "I see... but look at the bright side, man! The Sirians are neither black nor white - they are gray! At least I won't have to worry about racial prejudice!"
They both laughed; Soto was well known for his sense of humor. Then the officer, still smiling, added: "TheyТre not even another race. TheyТre another thinking species. Should that make a difference?" "You mean, 'Can they have souls?' The churches are being torn apart over the issue as we speak. My position stands firm. If they can think, and dream, and have religious beliefs, then they are human and must have souls. It stands to reason." "But isn't faith more important to you than reason?" The bishop gave the man a disbelieving stare. "Faith without reason? What is your faith worth, if it hasn't been tested by reasonЕ and has transcended it? If you haven't the mind or heart to test it - the capacity to doubt?"
The officer turned away, grabbed the rail and pulled himself up to face the receding battleship. "Could theЕ could the Sirians have a faith, a different faith that is closer to God than ours?" he asked. Bishop Soto sat silent for a minute, squinting through his glasses out at the open sea. They would land on the beach in just a few moments. Finally he answered, in much weaker, graver voice. "I will talk to them. We shall see." Then, squinting up at the sky, he asked the officer: "What are those strange clouds above the lagoon?" The officer was too busy to answer, picking up the bishop's luggage and bracing himself for the landing. The stern of the small boat slid up onto the white beach and stopped. Bishop Soto looked about himself eagerly. But there were no aliens in sight; a group of people rapidly moved in on them from the barracks behind the palm-grooves. Soto climbed off the boat and set his feet onto - or rather into - the soft, fine sand. He made a sigh of relief, held the crucifix that hung around his neck and kissed it, and cast a brief humble glance up at the clouds.
The officer put down his suitcases and waved hello at the approaching scientists. He asked Sayers to sign a clearance form, gave him some overseas mail, and walked back to push his waiting motorboat back into the waves. "Welcome to Alien Beach, Bishop Soto!" Carl called out from a distance. He came across and shook hands with the grinning bishop. "How should I address you - 'Your Eminence' or 'Father' or..." Soto made a mock-embarrassed face. "Please - we are all God's children here! I will not hear of any lofty titles as long as I stay on this island!" All the dozen scientists crowded to shake hands with the bishop; he put away his crozier and shook them all. Even among the devoutly atheistic among them, Soto instantly became a deeply needed beacon of integrity and optimism - they didn't openly tell him, but one could read it in their faces. Soto raised his arms to calm his new flock. "Thank you all for this fine welcoming!" he boomed. "I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful I am for this opportunity. During our stay here, I will attempt to repay for the honor of being among mankind's finest... УBut - where are the Sirians?" Soto's questioning eyes wandered from face to face, seeing only confusion and awkwardness. "Do you have a telephone or radio link to them?" Silence. "But what have you been doing for the past few days?" Carl Sayers answered. "Well... we haven't had much actual communication after the first contact. The Sirians keep very much to themselves, in their ship out in the lagoon, that is. We have a lot of cameras and detectors out across the island, measuring their activities. From those results, we assume they are trying to acclimatize themselves to the new environment - underwater, that is..." Soto shook his head. "What is this?" he asked them, his tone rhetorically shocked, as if holding a sermon. "Are mankind's finest afraid? Afraid to take the first step toward genuine communication? Is that what I think I see?" Ann Meadbourщ swallowed and said awkwardly: "It was they who came to us firstЕ so it's natural to assume that..." She couldn't continue. Soto lowered his voice to a somber note. "It always grieves me when a fellow man willingly casts off the free will that was God's gift to him. The Sirians are keeping to themselves, ergo they expect you, their hosts, to take the initiative!Ф He began to shout in righteous indignation: "It is our planet and we should assume they respect that! Go to them! Talk to them! Or I will!" The scientists were too stunned to reply. Soto turned and marched off to the nearest storage barrack, where a few rubber dinghies lay unused under a canvas. He opened the barrack door, immediately saw the scuba diving gear gathering dust there, and pulled a set of equipment off the racks. Before the silent stares of the scientists, Soto proceeded back to the surf, putting on the scuba gear. They saw he had been wearing a bathing suit under his clothes all the time. "Is he joking?" Ann asked Carl who shook his head in reply, his eyes fixed on Soto. "No, no... he's right and I've wasted a whole month sitting on my thumb. Everybody listen! To the shack - gear up and check it's working! Ann is the diving expert - she'll help you get it on. Now move, move, move!" In a desperate hurry, the group took to following the bishop's spirited initiative. Ann and Takeru helped the inexperienced ones get their gear in order. At last the time of formalities was over. The warm azure waters of the lagoon enveloped the dozen divers; their diving-flippers lifted off the sand and they floated off ground, their bodies weightless as if in space. Ann took the lead, her legs paddling with experienced, steady movements. She grabbed the much fatter and slower bishop Soto by the wrist and pulled him along, both heading down toward the lights of the submerged shape at the bottom. Below, the Sirian lander vessel loomed, a silent manta-shape ninety meters long; slowly spinning spotlights shining from its sides... at a closer look, one could see the huge inflated balloons on which the ship was resting, like black pillows of some opaque alien substance. Ann Meadbourщ and Edmund Soto swam closer to the hullТs underside, between two of the support balloons. They came close enough to touch it, and the spotlights moved away from their gaze, pointing down toward the coral bed. The visitors were being noticed. Edmund reached out and touched the hull: it was perfectly smooth under his fingers, cold and dark, dull metal. (Was it really the same ship he had seen landing on the Moon on TV? It seemed so much more massive now.)Ann tugged at his arm and pointed down to the hullТs underbelly: a round opening had irised out in it, brightly lit from inside. And a Sirian was floating down through the opening, gesticulating at the divers to enter up through it. She just couldnТt wait for clearance from the worldТs leaders, or from Carl - she swam straight for the bright opening, leaving Edmund behind. The Sirian figure waited, and Ann recognized him as she was approaching. Oanss, breathing water without effort or visible aid. Wearing bermuda shorts. Underwater, his eyes were opened much wider, pupils larger - an almost fishlike face. His skin hue was more blue-green than gray down here. She floated still, grasped the side of the opening to fight the faint current, and grinned through the visor of her breathing-mask. OanssТ lips widened in a smile, and a shiver ran down AnnТs back. He leaned closer, his lips parted - he said something, and Ann actually heard his voice carried through the water, slightly warbled but recognizable Sirian-pidgin English: УAaannn! Aaannn... Wee wwwaiiit foorr yyyou tweeelvve commme visiiitooor heeerrre...Ф
Oanss stretched out his branching pseudo-hand tentacle for her. Ann hesitated, turned her head and peered outside. The others were rapidly gathering up around the opening, waving and grinning. Oanss waved back, urging them inside. She glimpsed CarlТs gray-haired head with the breathing-mask on, looking her in the eyes. He nodded; she could go first. She trembled with fear, yet a tingling exhilaration filled AnnТs body. She placed her hand in OanssТ narrow, outstretched palm and clasped it. He moved up into the light, pulling her with him through a bright shaft - suddenly, they were above water, inside the illuminated ship. The lighting inside was weaker than that from the spotlights, and blue-green instead of white, limited to two light-sources in a large blue dome.A dome? Rather a fake blue sky, with one bright pin-prick sun - and a larger, blue-green sun. Ann blinked uncertainly, stepping from the pool of water up onto a metal ledge with rubbery handles. She took off her breathing-mask, and took in fresh, salty air. Then she looked down at the floor, and gasped - she saw no floor where the pool-ledge ended. They and the pool appeared to be floating in mid-air, high above a wide sea strewn with rocky islands, and plateaus rising high above the glittering waves. She must be dreaming - she stared up at the taller, upright Oanss, who had let go of her hand. His eyes and eyelids narrowed again, in this bright artificial light - but his face was calm, solemn even. Edmund and the other scientists gathered in the pool, climbing up, pulling off their masks, staring too. Carl was about to say something scientific to explain it all, but all of a sudden he couldnТt word a sound.
Oanss pointed out and around them, at the alien, rocky landscape below. The alien sea rumbled faintly, but there was no wind blowing - suddenly, a huge oblong shape hummed past their view - a vast, cigar-shaped airship, much larger than the lander itself, carrying a transparent gondola with waving Sirians looking at them. It was a kind of motion picture.УSsee... Pictuures oof myy woorlld... beefore, siixx thhousannd yearrs befooore. Pictures buillt thhen tiime.Ф Carl shuffled his feet in small circles to follow the 360-degree view, until he became dizzy - and had to support himself on Stone Pound to avoid falling over. There was too much information to take in one sitting. Images faded over into each other, with dates superimposed in English - six thousand years of history compressed to six minutes. Yet, there was a pattern to the events, and an obvious editing of the films. The fantastic images had a bland, censored quality, like a televised travel magazine, showing only happy Sirians doing nothing in particular, nothing that could be described as overly strange or obscene.
Many images were from under the sea. A pregnant Sirian female swam past the towers of a bustling, illuminated city, that was partly underwater, with a small infant in tow... Enlarged by microphotography to the size of a horse, a silvery robot no larger than an ameba moved inside the red veins of an old Sirian, mending the membranes of his lungs by sowing threads of tissue through them... A near-still image faded in, which the scientists could recognize from the first black-and-white transmissions: The SiriansТ giant solar-sail floating in outer space, near Mars. The view zoomed out from the center of the immense, slightly curved disk and onward to the passenger habitats. These consisted of cylinders clustered along a high, spindly boom which stood at the center of the disk; the central boom might have been several hundred meters high, but as the view zoomed out, the tower came to resemble a puny tip on the upside of a huge umbrellaЕ Takeru took it all in, but his eyes refused to believe the sheer scale - his brain interpreted it as a small model, not life-size. He took as many pictures as he could with a waterproof digital camera; the Sirians did not seem to mind. Then rows of computer text lined up in vertical rows, in several Sirian alphabets, the symbols of which resembled little waves on an electrocardiogramЕ one scientist, a linguist, started filming frantically with his portable camcorder. No Sirian tried to stop them from recording what they saw. They stood gazing at the moving holograms for a long while, until the images finally faded off to be replaced by a blank metal dome and flat floor. Through a round doorway, Ranmotanii and Namonnae came to the group, greeting them welcome to the lander craft. A set of blob-like silver robots moved in to form a circle of seats, where humans and Sirians could sit facing each other. Takeru took the seat next to Namonnae, and tried to look her in the eyes; she avoided his gaze. Carl caught his breath and said to Ranmotanii: УWe have a new man in our group. That is, instead of a man who was too sick to stay on Alien Beach. We brought the new visitor here. His name is Edmund Soto. A... a priest, he is.Ф The formalities and mutual staring were quickly done with; Soto had seen and heard Sirians on TV by now, and the awe was not as great as during the first man-to-alien encounters. He told himself not to be intimidated by their height. Then, facing the newcomer, the aged, wrinkled Oanorrn asked him what the word УpriestФ meant; he explained he had come across the concept in many TV broadcasts, but never clearly understood it. Soto answered proudly, slowly: УA priest talks to God... and God talks to the priest... and other humans talk to God through the priest.Ф The Sirians seemed puzzled. A robot served them some freshly caught, flapping small fish and crabs, which they casually devoured. Oanss offered Ann a barely dead fish, which she politely refused. Oanorrn leaned forward and closer to bishop Soto, and peered wonderingly at his dark-brown, round, jovial face. Soto looked back, unflinching, with even greater wonder in his face. Apart from Lazar Mahfouz, Soto was the only dark-skinned human in the ECT team. Then Oanorrn asked something entirely unexpected, in a sharp, clear voice - a question aimed solely at Soto. УDoo yyou taalk too thhe Ancestorrrs?Ф Soto swallowed, and mustered all his mental might to avoid wincing before the old alienТs searing, large eyes. УNo. I talk to God. God is not an ancestor.Ф Oanorrn did something with his face that might have been a frown, but it wrinkled in an alien manner. УWhhat is... God?Ф УGod is what created the world and the humans. Us. You. All living things.Ф УWhhat is... a liviing thhing?Ф
Chapter Nine
Carl experienced a sensation not unlike falling: Here it comes, the moment I feared and anticipated; all our familiar notions about the universe, thrown out the window like a bucket of garbage. Soto wasnТt discouraged now - he was prepared. This was his moment, his cosmic catechism. His faith would be tested, and win. He knew it. There was no doubt in his voice, no tremble or stutter. УA stoneЕ is not a living thing. This shipЕ is not a living thing. But youЕ you are a living thing. And I am. That fishЕФ Soto held up one little fish that had just stopped flapping. УThis fish was living, until it died. Now it is like a stoneЕ not living.Ф Ranmotanii, seated near Oanorrn, said something to the other Sirians. Namonnae, who leaned closer to Oanorrn, made a brief click-sound - most of the scientists realized she was laughing. Other Sirians mumbled, and made little gestures that were impossible to decipher. Oanss stood up, looked up at the ceiling of the dome, and said something to himself, in his own language. Ann listened carefully. УChiskr-r-r-r Е chiskr-r-r-rЕФ Ann tried to remember the sounds - maybe when she had come to understand his language, she couldЕ An expression of - concern? - came over OanorrnТs wrinkled, flattened face. He seemed to be thinking hard, and blinked several times. He looked up at Soto, took a slow breath, and pressed his soft arms tightly together. УI doonТt undeerstannd. We thinnk thiss sship iis a liviing thhing. Wee maade itt movve, aand brreathe, and thhink. It iss mostlly metal. Metal strructuure cann bee destrooyed, llike uss. Iit caan diie, like uss. Doo yoou meann therre is morre thhan oone way off beiing a livinng thinng?Ф УYes. Hundreds of millions of people who believe what I believe, are convinced that only living, thinking beings created by God have a soul.Ф Pause.
УExxplainn. Expllaain crreated by Godd... aand... soull?Ф УCreated by God means, not built by humans - not by land-humans like us, or by humans like you. It means being born like all other living things, that is to say directly from another living being.Ф The Sirians listened - intent, silent. УBeeing bornn frrom iinsiide aa motherr paareent.Ф УYes.Ф УAnnd yoou, and mme, uss haave soullЕ and thhe deead ffishЕ havve a ssoul, befffore.Ф УWell -- yes and no. The fish had no soul to begin with. But you and IЕ each of us have a soul. The part of us that thinks, feels, and wants to learn moreЕ that is a soul.Ф
УI donnТt underrstannd. Wheen I aam deead, I willl stiill haave a ssoulЕФ УNo, no. The soul leaves the body when you die.Ф
Oanorrn began to say something, but stopped; he glanced at Ranmotanii, who merely blinked back. He went on: УIff a sooul iis whatt thiinks annd wanntssЕ theen itt caan livve oor die. Iis thatt nnot the sammme forr thee ffish?Ф УPleaseЕ you misunderstand me. Forgive me for taking the meaning of our words for granted. What do you think we mean by the word СdeadТ?Ф
Oanorrn spoke faster, more urgently, voice on the verge of stuttering - almost human, if not for his off-phase intonation.
УWee saw mmany transmiitted imaages frrom yourr pllanet. Maany off the iimages weere oof dead laand-hummans. Sso we thhink, СdeadТ iis whenn yourr bodyy doess nott mmove, breathheЕ wheen boddy stopss woorkinng.Ф УI also think so. Science supports that idea. But I, as a priest, I hold another view also. That, when my body stops working, my soul will move away from it and live forever with God.Ф УThhen soo God iss aan anceestorr.Ф УNo! God is not someone who lived and then died. God is the one eternal being that created everything.Ф УI thinnk I uunderstand moorreЕ somme off yyour wwords meean thinngs wee do noot undeerstannd noww. Whhat happenns to the ssoul oof thee deead fissh?Ф УA fish has no soul!Ф УWhyy?Ф УBecause it does not think, does not want to learn more, but us humans do!Ф УHaave you leearned aabout the fiish aas a sscientiist learrns abouut thee worlld, or doo yyou think iit wiithoout learrning itt firstt?Ф The bishop was taken aback a little - a clear sharpness was in the alienТs voice, his face set hard. Now Oanorrn spoke so fast it became an uninterrupted stream of words - as if all the time, he had been slowing down his speech for the sake of humans. УWwith-my-people-to-learnn-iss-too-ffind-moorre-about-the- world-by-working-iin-it-noot-onnly-thinkinng-aboout-iit- you-cann-thhink-anythinng-but-dooes-nnot-maake-iit-reall.Ф One scientist asked the old amphibian to repeat what he had just said. His colleagues hushed him down, indicating the cameras and recorders in use around them. For the first time ever, one of the aliens had revealed itself as being impatient, maybe even angered. But he quickly seemed to gain control of himself, and his soft arms loosened up - features returning to that otherworldly serenity of his. What the hell was that all about? thought Carl. Even the other Sirians stared at their elder, with eyes inhumanly wide. In the few moments of silence, one man moved to speak - Lazar Mahfouz.
УOanorrn! What does the word СrealТ mean to you?Ф УToo mmy peoplle, rreal isЕliike soo. Aa stoneЕ iss reall. The meetal in thiis shippЕ is reeal. The deead fiish iis reeal. Thhe partss thaat are inn myy bodyy - boones, cellss, lliquid, ssmall machiines -- iss rreal. The staars aare reall. Thee emptyy ssea betweeen the sstars.. iss not rreal.Ф УAre you real?Ф УNo.Ф
There wasnТt a momentТs doubt in the alienТs reply, not a raised eyelid from the ten or so gathered Sirians. They might just as well have been discussing the weather. Are you real? No. УDoes that make you sorryЕ sad for not being real?Ф УWhhy...? Iff I wass reeal liike thhe deadd fissh, theen I coould nott learrn moorre aabout thee reeall in thhe woorld?Ф Stunning. It occurred to Lazar then, that the words УrealФ and УlearnФ, or the closest Sirian equivalents, meant something special to themЕ something crucial to the fabric of nature itself. Seeking facts about the world, yes, but more than just that. He had to learn more. Namonnae mumbled something in the elderТs ear-hole. Oanorrn made a strange, coughing sound and hugged her head, gently. She rocked her head slowly, while staring at the humans with narrowed eyelids - a strand of her thick dark mane fell into her eyes. Takeru felt a sting of compassion. He wanted to rush forward, say something to soothe her, but he was too afraid of doing anything wrong or inappropriate at this important moment. So he sat still, with his hands tightly folded. УSoЕФ Oanorrn asked. УWhenn yoou bisshop Edmmund Sotoo, wheen yourr boody sstops wworkinng, your ssooul willl beecome ann Aancesstoor?Ф УNo.Ф Oanorrn shut his eyes, kept them shut, raised his arms, and clapped loudly into the air once. УI unnderstannd,Ф he boomed. УItt iss aas I thhink earliier. We willl not taalk about thosse worrds againn. Ranmotanii! Aall of our peeoplle! Do nnot talk aabout thhose wordss wiith laand-hummaans againn!Ф Soto, looking quite shaken, thanked the Sirian elder for the debate and turned to Carl. His voice was hoarse, and he wiped his sweat-glistening face as he spoke. УThese extraterrestrialsЕ such no-nonsense peopleЕ Now IТm convinced they have souls like us. But their faith is more like the ancestor worshipЕ of my own African ancestors! How ironic!Ф УIt could be,Ф Carl suggested, Уthat they picked the word СancestorТ by mistake from our TV broadcasts. It is very likely they refer to something else.Ф Soto clasped his forehead in puzzlement, casting brief glances back at the alien hosts. УBut Sayers, they believe that even fish have soulsЕ Then how can they eat live fish so carelessly?Ф УThatТs not so strange,Ф Lazar fell in. УIn - pardon the expression, primitive cultures, gods and souls are not so powerful, because there are many of them. If the Sirians think there are ancestor spirits floating around everywhere, they may sort of nullify each otherТs influence to almost nothing. When they eat fish, the fishТs СsoulТ or mana is just added to their own spirits, without effort.Ф УThese are not primitives!Ф Takeru interrupted them - he had been following the discussion with increasing excitement. УTheir technology is far beyond ours. You saw the solar sail. Their culture has holographic records that are six thousand years old. Can you imagine the inner strength of a culture lasting that long? Not even China is older than three, four thousand years - Egypt, perhaps five thousand. Whatever their beliefs are, they are rock-solid with age and experience!Ф УSo you believe in ancestor spirits?Ф the bishop asked Takeru. Takeru nodded faintly, as if embarrassed to confess it aloud. Most Westerners had trouble grasping a concept that he more or less accepted without rational reflection, but he didnТt like to discuss it. Carl heard that the assembly of murmuring, whispering scientists were rambling ahead into another internal conference, and called for order. Sometimes he wished his profession didnТt attract so many eggheads. Oanorrn retreated to the innards of the ship, too tired for further discussions. The scientists conferred with Ranmotanii the activities of the upcoming months, and the Sirians made a definite request. They explained that the time had finally come to study Earth firsthand, as soon as possible, and asked permission from the worldТs leaders. Carl promised to bring forth the message to the U.N. Security Council immediately. There were no normal means of communication inside the ship - no signals reached in or out without the SiriansТ letting them - so Carl politely asked to leave for the surface. The other scientists, when raising the question, were given clearance to visit the Sirians whenever they wanted, even at night. Mutual declarations of continued communication were made, and the ECT team dived back into the water by small group. The last ones to leave were Takeru and Ann. Takeru came up to Namonnae, held his breathing-mask in his hand, pretending to be ready to leave, looking up furtively at her long, smooth, dark-gray face. УYouЕ you looked sorryЕ when Oanorrn touched you. I mean, not because of himЕФ He looked at her dark, flat feet, waiting for her to answer. They were ugly, swollen and dark with capillaries - he knew this, because the first Sirian messages had disclosed details of their amphibian metabolism. Her feet were built to siphon off excess body heat that gathered under her blubber. She is ugly - inhuman - loathsome. He thought so, shocking himself as he looked at her immobile face, then realized that he was confusing his emotions. УYes. I amm soorry. Soorry whenn I ssee yourr traansmissionss. Yoou haavve nno Anceestoors. Ass reeplacemment, you havve buiilt thesse maachiness callled teeleeviisionnТ, thhat seend yyour mmany dreeamss throough thee worlld. Everyoone seee themmm. I do studyy off laand-humaans eenough, thhat waay.Doo nnoot wannt to goo outsside our sship, doo nnoot wannt to mmove iin yourr woorld. Ranmotanii and Oanorrn telll mme I aam too younng to unnderrstannd you. I unndersstand eenoughh. УGo baack to lannd, lannd-huumaan. I will staay here uuntill we go baack intoo thhe biggeer seea.Ф УThe bigger sea...? Oh yes, we call it Сouter spaceТ. Goodbye, Namonnae. I wasЕ glad that we could talk to each other.Ф УGoodbyye, heello.Ф There was nothing more he could say. What could a primitive land-human possibly say that would be of use, or comfort, to an advanced amphibian? Still averting her steady gaze, Takeru put on his mask and splashed into the pool. When he was gone, Ann stopped wandering around the dome and went looking for Oanss. He was occupied doing some work with other Sirians, holding strange metal instruments into the air. УOanss?Ф The amphibian said something to his friends and walked aside with her. He gave her an attentive look. УWhen you go outside this ship, to study our planetЕ can I come with you? I can help you learn moreЕФ УYou cann heelp mme. Thhank you, yess, muuch. Aann, you mmove in thiis sseaЕlike nnot aaa lannd-huumaan at aall. Liike yyou werre oone oof myy peoplle.Ф The thirty-something biologist-anthropologist giggled like a moronic teenager, and blushed slightly. УThank youЕ I have been working close to dolphins for yearsЕ you know, dolphins? The animals that swim around your ship and look a little like Sirians?Ф Oanss made an undulating gesture with his arm, like imitating a swimming animal. УDollphiins, yees. Wwe talk too themm soometimess, annd theey tallk to uus. They assk forr fissh, alwaays almosst. Thhey aare frieendlyy, noot but soo intelliigennt aas yourr peeoplle.Ф In an instant, a lifetimeТs aspirations collapsed in AnnТs mind as she realized that the Sirians could communicate with dolphins - and had found nothing to talk about except food. УI have so much to think about now, work I must doЕ But pleaseЕ come and talk to me tomorrow. Okay?Ф УMuuch okaayy, Aann. Now yyou slleep wwith yourr peeoplle...?Ф She shook her head, motioning toward the pool with the oxygen-tubes strapped to her back, blond hair held in place by a sweatband. УNo, we sleep aloneЕ I mean, in separate rooms. Up on the island, in the barracks. At least - at least I think most of us do.Ф At least, she knew, she did. Always alone, with or without company. УGoodnight, Sirian humans.Ф She made a sudden, smooth drop down into the pool and was gone with just a small splash. УGood -Ф Oanss began a reply, but stopped. He turned away from the pool and walked away to join his flock. During the evening, just as the sun was setting, Carl left the communications building - exhausted again. The world was pushing for his attention, from his wife to the President himself. God, if only he could escape it all somehow - preferably into space, with the next Sirian shipЕ Carl stumbled into the door of his barrack - he had left it unlocked; the only thing he kept locked up was his Sirian dream-recorder. Then he noticed Ann was in there, sitting on his bed by the lit bed-lamp. She wore the same bermuda-shorts and white t-shirt as earlier during the day. But she had combed her hair and set it up in a way that framed her face beautifully, just like on the day she first entered CarlТs JPL office in Pasadena. УHi,Ф she said. УHi... please get off my bed, IТll crash on it now if you donТt mind.Ф
УA hard day, hmm?Ф She moved aside, so that he could slump backward onto the bed and close his eyes. He sighed deeplyЕ and felt her warm hand on his forehead. Carl opened his eyes and looked up into AnnТs face. He understood what was on, all right. They were close friends, but that issue had somehow never been raised between them - until now. Ann had always struck her as a very lonely personЕ УIТm a happily married man, Ann.Ф УThe kids grown up, flown out?Ф УYeah.Ф УNever had any brief flings with female colleagues?Ф УYeah, oneЕ it led to my current marriage.Ф УI envy her.Ф УDonТt. Please.Ф УFor old FriendshipТs sake?Ф Carl sighed, and merely turned his head away from AnnТs hand. She stood up and went out the door without a sound. He knew he had hurt her, and it felt shitty. For a moment, he had contemplated a brief flingЕ hell, they had all been spending too much time holed up on this damned island. As he fell asleep, Carl thought of how great it would be to guide the Sirians around the globe for a changeЕ and then get home to see the family a few days, before returning to Alien Beach. He missed his wife so much, missed the way they could talk for hours. And there was plenty to talk aboutЕ Meanwhile, Ann sat on the beach, watching the ships and aircraft pass byЕ crying silently. Meanwhile, Takeru dreamt something strange but significant; the next morning, he wished he had recorded the fading memory. Meanwhile, in his barrack, bishop Soto kneeled by his bed and prayed alone, crucifix in hand, until he collapsed to sleep. Meanwhile, in the medical barrack, talking to Mats Jonsson, Lazar said: УThey showed us nothing that gave us a sense of change, of their history, nothing we didnТt know from their first messagesЕ I am not paranoid. They are deliberately hiding things from us.Ф The Swede shrugged, and said: УSure. I have accepted that they are superior to us. The Sirians are talking down to us, like we were childrenЕ wouldnТt you?Ф УDo you remember OanorrnТs debate with the bishop today?Ф УSure. Never seen one of them angry before.Ф УOanorrn made a mistakeЕ out of eagerness or perhaps senility, and then he corrected himself. He very nearly broke some kind of taboo. It has to do with their view of reality, their faith. I should really discuss this with my colleagues all over the world, butЕФ УBut?Ф Lazar exploded: УBut the Sirians are right, damn them! ItТs too dangerous to let loose an alien philosophy upon this primitive civilization! Ancestor worship. Living beings who are convinced they are not real. Living metal in symbiosis with living flesh, yet without surgical implants. Giant spaceships. A culture older than Egypt. And thatТs what they do tell us. What theyТre hiding must be so fantastic it could destroy usЕ like Christian missionaries destroyed the pagan cultures they encountered.Ф УWeТre all scientists here, Lazar. I donТt like censorship any more than you do. But this is going too fast. We have to keep the outside world in ignorance, until we know more. DonТt go public just now.Ф Lazar nodded. From the pocket of his khaki jacket, he picked a small liquor bottle and took a swig. Mats refused to have a taste - with all the medical alcohol in his office, he had to stay sober. УGo to sleep, Lazar. ThatТs my medical advice. And donТt use that dream-recorder again. YouТre getting circles under your eyes.Ф УItТs hard to resist once youТve learned to use it. I can already control my dreams to a certain extent. Some dreams are good enough to replayЕФ The Egyptian moved to the door and grinned knowingly, as if to say he was self-destructive and proud of it. Mats waved him away, not saying what he thought: The proud American Indian was destroyed by the white manТs whiskeyЕ and now the proud Earthman is being destroyed by an electronic toy. I wish I could help you, Lazar, but IТm afraid I canТt. Mats dug out his own recording-helmet, went outside, and took it to the edge of the darkened beach. He stood there for a while, unable to toss it into the ocean. Then he noticed a figure sitting nearby with her back to a palmtree, looking at him. He walked up to the cluster of leaning, arching trunks and saw that it was Ann. УAnn? ItТs getting awfully cold. YouТd better go inside and -Ф
Chapter Ten
DAY 60
It was a slightly cloudy day, for the Pacific Ocean. Bishop Soto led a small morning mass on the beach, attended by a handful of scientists. After mass, a group of Sirians were on that beach, waiting as a big U.S. Navy helicopter hovered down to pick them up. Each member of this group wore bermudas and what resembled soft metal vests covered with small round knobs - without doubt wearable machinery. Among them were Oanss and Ranmotanii; as she had pledged, Namonnae had chosen to stay at Alien Beach. For health reasons, the elderly Oanorrn had also chosen to remain at the base camp. The seven cone-headed tourists had no fixed route planned - the U.N. Security Council had agreed to a very discreet mode of travel to avoid terrorist attacks or public panic. Joining the Sirians as guides and mediators were an ECT linguist from England, then Takeru Otomo, Ann Meadbourщ, Lazar Mahfouz, and Carl Sayers. Stone Pound would lead the group on Alien Beach in CarlТs absence. The chopper thundered down on a wide carpet of canvases that would minimize the dust thrown up. The group shielded their eyes as they made their way up into the passenger cabin. A few remaining Sirians and human scientists waved them goodbye, and the helicopter took off toward the carrier. Inside, the Sirians blinked nervously as they sat in the narrow cabin seats, keeping their tall heads down to avoid hitting the ceiling. УNo, I donТt think they were thinking of amphibians when they designed this thing,Ф Carl joked to the other scientists. The noise inside seemed to cause the Sirians more distress than the humans - they quickly did something with their metal vests, and small gobs of black, clay-like substance popped out of them, which the Sirians put into their ear-holes. They soon relaxed a little. Aware of the need to give Ranmotanii some privacy after hassling him almost constantly, Carl now concentrated his attention on Oanss. He tried to ask Oanss about his other fellow travelers, whom Carl had not really talked to before. Five males and females of varying ages presented themselves, all taller than humans, all males being bald, all females having long manes of hair on the back of their heads. Carl could barely pronounce their names... Oanss and Ranmotanii he УknewФ, stretching the term; the two sat next to each other, conversing in clipped Sirian phrases. Sometimes it seemed they were exchanging information using their vest devices, but Carl wasnТt certain how they worked. Mnmnonns, a young-looking female with slight hair and an air of shyness about her. Aonasann, a blocky, narrow-eyed male with a few lines of age on his thick throat, who said and did little - his nasal ridge ran thick along his face and sloping forehead. Some of the silvery, blob-like devices he was carrying were sticking out of his ears. Moanossoans, a quite tall female who smiled a lot, shielding the top of her head with her soft arms, talking rapidly in her alien tongue, and doing the odd clicking laugh at every new sight she saw.Snaoosnee, an aged female - thinner than her younger sisters, her breasts had sunk into her chest and virtually disappeared, making her the most androgynous member of the group; her mane had a near-translucent sheen. Tmmtenaa, a male of slightly fatter build than Oanss, mostly gazing out the portholes of the vessel, holding an extension of his machine-jacket to his head - whatever he was recording or measuring, it seemed intriguing enough to keep him out of touch with any other beings. Only now did Carl see, how different from each other the aliens were. He grew aware of the tension from the military personnel at the pilotТs end of the cabin, and said aloud to the officer at the door: УDonТt stare, soldier - they wonТt bite.ФУSorry, sir!Ф
The naval officer ceased staring at the alien passengers and barked some orders to the pilots in the adjacent cockpit instead. The aircraft carrier came closer; the chopper went down to land on its deck. Rows of onlookers stood waiting at the edges of the deck. The chopper touched down and was secured on the deck; quite suddenly, a heavy rain-shower started pouring out of the clouded sky. The Sirians seemed happy for getting wet, and stepped out to wave at the rain-soaked crewmen and passengers. From less than sixty meters off, the battlecruiser U.S.S. Powell sailed by, scores of people waving and pointing from its decks and rails. The seven Sirians and five scientists waved back until their arms ached. This part of the tour was just showbiz, and Carl impatiently demanded that their jet would be cleared for immediate take-off. Only an hour later could the group enter a converted V-22 Osprey VTOL plane and lift off for Australia. They would later continue toward Asia, Europe, and America. Unsurprisingly, the Sirian travel committee had announced to Carl that they wished to travel along the course of the sun - from east to west. Even aliens disliked jetlag. From the little yacht, the soldier watched the aircraft carrier through his binoculars. He saw the Osprey aircraft take off in a westward direction. He had come too late to even catch a glimpse of the aliens boarding their plane. Norman put a hand on his shoulder and said: УHey, Coffin - there must be some of them left on Alien Beach. You could wait in the vicinity, and theyТll show up eventually. YouТll get your chance.Ф
The soldier wavered where he stood, absentmindedly scratching off some of the light-brown skin-dye from his thin face.
УDo you by any chance know where theyТll land?Ф he asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the vanishing aircraft.
УAustralia, thatТs for sure. And what with these conehead mates being amphibians, theyТll stay close to sea. You could go after them, but so will everyone else.Ф The soldier peered after the vanishing Osprey, and realized with a chill that the recent rainfall had ended abruptly, just before the Osprey took off. As if someone was controlling the cloudsЕ did the military use rain-crystals here? Was the whole affair so staged, that nothing was left to chance? If so, would the men in charge allow the Sirians to get close to ordinary people? The generals had been running the whole show from the outset, flashing their guns to show who was The Man. The soldier whispered to himself: УIЕ hateЕ allЕ officers.Ф He would wait. As long as the visions wouldnТt stop coming, he would keep waiting. George and Norman told him something about stopping at their home island, two dayТs journey off. He barely listened; they clearly sensed that he was a man possessed. And if the soldier had been less self-absorbed, he would have seen that they were growing afraid of the absent stare in his eyes when he had one of those sudden visions. The soldierТs acidic irony and wisecracks could no longer hide how remote he was becoming - the world around him he responded to with indifference, if at all. Strangely enough, this didnТt alarm him now.
For each nautical mile closer to Alien Beach the boat had brought him, the more calmly he had received the recurring visionsЕ until he could see them while standing up, just freezing still as his eyes glazed over. They came in irregular waves by now, short bursts of vivid, full-sensory hallucinations followed by up to an hour of normalcy - then, maybe, might come a long waking-dream that he would sit through for several minutes. For a brief moment he could be seeing empty space around him, specked with stars, or he could spend what seemed like an hour swimming in a flock of Sirians through a freezing-cold green sea - lit by a faint sun above his head. Also emotions forced themselves upon him with the other impressions, but no abstract information beside that. And the memories of the visions stayed, as vividly as real life. The soldier had almost forgotten to ask what it all meant; it was easier to just lie back and enjoy the ride. Even the accompanying headaches were getting less intense. In a moment of clarity, as he helped the brothers pull in a fishing-net from the yachtТs stern, the soldier thought: Why not keep waiting? Why bother with why the Sirians are doing this? Could be an accident, after all. The visions might go away the moment they leave this planet. And then IТll be stuck here againЕ No. No, thereТs got to be a way! Listen, whoever you are who keep sending these visions into my head. If you can read my mind, please help me. What should I do? Is there anything I could do? The lukewarm breeze blew in his brown-dyed face, playing with his black-dyed hair. A distance away in the wake of the yacht, a dozen dolphins came leaping up and down, chasing the vessel for scraps of fish. In a few moments, a flock of noisy gulls and a lone, drifting albatross joined in the pursuit. At the horizon, the strange clouds appeared to deliberately shield the lagoon and island from the sun - silent, never quite concentrating enough to form a rainfall, but never spreading out too thin to hold together. A slowly swirling galaxy of clouds, specked with smaller spiral patterns. Every few minutes, patroling aircraft flew through them effortlessly, like arrows through mist. There came no answer to the soldierТs plea. No insane УvoicesФ in his head either. Yet, he knew what to do. УHey - Coffin. DonТt jump in the water again. ThereТs a patrolboat watching us there - we shouldnТt risk them boarding us.Ф УIТm not going down again, George.Ф The soldier took his stand at the rail, stretched his arms up into the sky and faced up at a cloud, ignoring the aircraft, cleared his throat. And shouted loudly upward, with the alien intonation of his first vision: УChiisЕ chiskr-r-r-r, chiis, chiptl, mmer-r-r-rlleeee!Ф And again. And again. George and Norman came up behind him, grabbed his arms, and forced him back onto the fiberglass wall of the pilot-cabin. УYouТre bleeding mad, mate!Ф Norman hissed fearfully at him, as the two brothers dragged him down into the cabin. УYou want us boarded? That disguise might work from a distance but up close theyТll get you.Ф They locked him into the cabin - he didnТt really try to fight them - and resumed their work, trying to keep up appearances for the approaching patrolboats. The soldier felt nothing, no frustration, no anger with the others, no worry. He thought he knew why: he had given up, and it was about time. The visions would end. The Sirians would move on. And his life would remain as it had been; without meaning, aim or hope. From outside, he heard the two brothers curse him loudly. He felt a bit seasick - that was new. The boat rocked heavier all of a suddenЕ the jet aircraft rumble in the sky was smothered by rolling thunder, and the soldier peered out one of the dirty portholes. The cloud system over Alien Beach was thickening. How could that be? The last moment heТd been looking, the breeze had thinned it out. As he watched, the breeze grew into a gale, tugging at loose strands of rope that hung from the boatТs railing. The voices of the brothers outside sounded more upset. There was a clatter of things falling onto the deck, and the roar of the boatТs engine being cranked up to full power. They were moving out from the island at full speed, the boatТs bow rising and falling in the angered waves; the first flash of lightning hit the island. The soldier checked his wristwatch. It was no later than noon. Now at last he understood the meaning of the alien phrase he had spoken in the first vision. It was a call to something beyond human control, something that was out there. Something real, and it had heard him! He made for the cabin door, pounding on it until they let him outside. The wild-eyed soldier rushed out like an animal released from captivity, and leaned along the railing, starting to laugh with uncontrollable joy. He stared up at the dark clouds, overcome with gratitude, and the mask of superior irony fell like the worthless cover it was. УThank you! Thank you! Thank youЕФ When the first heavy drops of rain hit his face, it was already wet. УWhereТd that storm come from? I was sure theyТd board us, but then the weather forced them off our backs -Ф УShut up, George. IТm taking her to the home island and IТm never going near Alien Beach again. That atoll is cursed!Ф The boat skimmed the foaming waves, seeking out a safer harbor.
DAY 61
Sydney, Australia.
No real preparations were made, no elaborate welcome was planned, and no publicity was allowed. Of all the Australian authorities only the government cabinet had been informed, half a day in advance. The U.N. Secretary General and the U.S. President, the only two persons with unrestricted access to Carl SayersТ coded cell-phone number, had pestered Carl incessantly with anxious calls from the start of the journey across the Pacific: What are they doing? Who are they talking to? Are you being followed? Before the Osprey had landed at a secluded military airfield in Sydney, Carl had tried to explain to Ranmotanii the dangers of moving openly in crowded human cities - not to mention the pollution and smell. Smiling inscrutably, Ranmotanii had nodded and ignored the warnings. He had expressed complete faith in superior Sirian technology to protect him against disease or accident. Then he once more had explained that he wanted to see land-humans in their natural environment, whether it smelled or not. Yet, at the last minute, the amphibians had (reluctantly?) agreed to let their hosts determine the route of their first excursion outside Alien Beach. Now, the group exited out onto the sun-baked airfield, where a handful of Australian cabinet members greeted them; behind them stood a platoon of armed soldiers. The politicians, too afraid to shake hands, merely bowed awkwardly to the taller guests; the Sirians, trying to follow custom, bowed in return. УWe understand your stay will be very short, then?Ф the sweating Minister of Defense asked Carl as the group was escorted to the waiting bus. Carl, squinting in the dry heat, more worried about how the amphibians would take the local climate than for himself, gave the politicians a wrinkly grin. УThey will stay as long as they want to. There is no set schedule, apart from the agreed one-year stay on this planet. ItТs all in the original treaty.Ф УBut our cost of surveillanceЕФ УWould you rather have the rest of the worldТs leaders having the Sirians all to themselves? Who knows what opportunities youТd miss? Tourism, trade agreements?Ф The Minister of Defense nodded nervously, as if afraid to upset anyone. The group, save for the soldiers, entered the bus, which had been fitted with special windows that prevented people from seeing the Sirians inside. The air-conditioned interior was spacious enough even for amphibian heads, and several rows of seats had recently been removed to create space for their legs. Carl noticed no open nervousness from the aliens, though he sensed that they put more trust in him and his three fellow ECT members, than in the tense locals. УWhat happened to the laid-back, cool Aussies IТve heard so much about?Ф he quipped to Ann and Lazar. УThey will never even know the Sirians passed by. Ironic, no?Ф said Lazar. УThis tour is a joke - but itТs a start,Ф Ann muttered with a guilty glance toward the seated Sirians. This wasnТt what she had wanted. Sighing, Carl declared: УOkay, gentlemen - give us a slow tour of the city.Ф On the command of the Interior Minister, the busload of aliens moved and, escorted by security cars, drove out into the outskirts of Sydney. It was late in the afternoon, and the city lights were beginning to come out.The bus drove around most of the city in one sweep. The Sirians stared at everything they saw and took records - not entirely unlike ordinary tourists, though much quieter. A few outside pedestrians looked after the passing bus, as if they suspected what was behind those reflecting windows - but no one outside saw the Sirians. Three hours later, the bus took them to their УhotelФ - a large house at the beach marked as government property, which was sealed off with barbed-wire fences and watchdogs. When the Sirians stepped off the bus, watchdogs on the other side of the fence started barking briefly. The Sirians looked them in the eye, and the dogs fell silent and cowered in obedience, or fear, or both. Ranmotanii was now showing signs of exhaustion, so much so that humans could discern them; his skin was starting to lose its luster, and his feet were dark from excess heat. The other amphibians led him toward the secluded part of the beach that belonged to the property, and helped him to rest in the surf for a while. Other Sirians soon joined them, and they eventually disappeared under the waves to sleep. Only Ranmotanii and Snaoosnee - the oldest ones - returned from the sea to sleep on land, indoors. The two seniors, keeping their vests on, gathered on the carpet in the living-room that overlooked the beach. They cuddled together and bid CarlТs team goodnight. Carl asked them why they wouldnТt join their friends underwater. They explained that they were too old, their lungs too weak to breathe water for extended periods. The older the Sirians grew, the more they became Уland-humansФ. Ann wanted to ask more, but Carl stopped her - he suddenly felt a special bond with the resting couple, a kinship of age that Ann yet lackedЕ He suddenly desired to talk to Lazar; Lazar was old and wise, understood everything and judged no one. But the old Egyptian asked to be left alone to sleep, and he was carrying the dream-recording helmet with him in a small bag wherever he went. What was he dreaming? One day, Carl thought, he would gather the courage to ask Lazar to see one of his recorded dreams - one day when his strength of mind wasnТt so dispersed. УCarl,Ф Takeru began to say. УNot now, Takeru, please. I gotta sleep.Ф Takeru had intended to ask permission to study the Sirians sleeping underwater, or at least put some underwater cameras in their vicinity. The security measures appalled him; that, and the lost opportunities to observe the Sirians at all times. There was so much Takeru wanted to learn - and, just maybe, emulate...Were the Sirians cyborgs, unable to sustain life without the aid of their machines? How was their social hierarchy constructed? Was the nuclear energy that fueled their lander craft based on hydrogen fusion or anti-matter reaction? How exactly did one spend oneТs life in a culture so advanced? Did they have an economy based on money, or services? Did they breed naturally or through genetic engineering? Did they feel, they way humans did, or were they just faking emotion as a courtesy? Did they all hate him like Namonnae did? Takeru took a sleeping-pill before going to bed, just like he had been doing almost every night since he first talked to her. The pills helped blotting out the dreams and the anxiety.
Chapter Eleven
DAY 63
It was late morning, air drying up, temperature climbing slowly. The soldier palmed Norman the agreed fee in U.S. dollars and gave George back his passport. George argued with his brother, asking him to accept less. Norman reluctantly gave the soldier back one-third of the sum and walked away without saying goodbye, still bickering with Norman as they headed back to the boat. So much for NormanТs cunning scheme. The soldier picked up his threadbare canvas bag and walked across the tiny concrete pier of the two brothersТ home island. He had been neglecting his light disguise during the journey, and erosion had faded down his skin and hair color to a dirty, speckled hue that hardly rang true. Yet, here he did indeed blend in. The small island, with its tiny fisherman population, was now teeming with paler visitors. The soldier halted when he first saw a group of bald-shaven people in crimson robes. It was that cult again - so close to Alien Beach and so soon? How come the authorities hadnТt chased them away? And that awful retarded chanting again - the soldier winced with recognition. Now he understood it: the worshippers, dancing with their arms raised in undulating movement, were actually trying to sound and move like the aliens shown in the media. He took a wide path around the dozen robed cultists, past the back-alleys of what passed for Main Street: rows of low ramshackle houses and worn-down old colonial-style buildings side by side, remnants of old times surrounded by the cheapness and junk of modernity. A pack of dogs rooting through garbage cans, sniffing him out and begging with their eyes. A dirty native infant, perhaps twelve years old, swooshing past him on a pair of shiny new rollerblades - hogging the concrete pavement because the rest of the island was just sand. Clusters of crimson-red tents, everywhere. Swarms of buzzing insects hovering here and there. And over everything, the stench-cocktail of a collapsed waste disposal system, calculated for much fewer than the hundreds of cultists gathered on the island. As the soldier strolled out of a wide alley, he glimpsed a group of local police officers at a shop, wearing khaki uniforms and assault rifles. He stopped, turned and took another detour. A small miracle the cops hadnТt spot him at the pier. The soldier went cold with paranoia. They could pin just any excuse on him for kicking him off the island, pushing him farther away from his goal. If he had another fit and they saw it, it was over for him. Before they might spot him, the soldier slunk into the nearest red tent. Inside, he nearly stumbled on an assembly of four cult members who were sharing a late breakfast of rice and lentils.
УSorry, I didnТt mean toЕ I thought this wasЕ do you know where I can find a bathroom?Ф One of the cultists, quite sourly, pointed out the row of Port-O-Lets in a palm grove thirty meters off. The soldier excused himself and went over to use it. Afterwards, he sought out the main street marketplace and shopped for supplies. Everywhere around the place he spotted men and women in red robes - and something else familiar. Teenage girls mostly, but also a few boys were walking about with their heads and faces painted gray, hair cut Mohawk or bald, makeup around their eyes to make them seem large. And no clothes except bermuda-shorts and - gray diving-flippers, cut to amphibian foot-shape. It took the soldier about one minute to grow tired of ogling all the topless women - diving-flippers just didnТt do anything for him. Contempt? No, he admitted to himself, he didnТt simply despise the cultists and the fashion-conscious youths - he also envied them their community. Maybe he was alone in his genuine visions; he was also alone with them. Surrounded by the chanting, herd-following crowds who wished just as much as him to meet the Sirians, the need to talk to someone, anyone overwhelmed him. If he could only beat his fear of being called a madman, if there was any other human he could share his experience withЕ УHey! I remember you from the airport!Ф He started at the voice - and saw a bald young cultist standing next to him in the marketplace, grinning at him. УWhat?Ф УYou asked me for a leaflet about our church! How wonderful to see you made it across here! IsnТt this a wonderful place to be?Ф The soldier said just the opposite of what he thought, taking a sniff of the less-than-pure air: УYes, a wonderful place. How great to see all these people gathering in the quest for higher understandingЕ Sorry, I forgot to ask your name the first time we met.Ф УPatty.Ф She suddenly seemed to recall a procedure. УGood morning, greetings, welcome.Ф Patty made an obscure hand-gesture and gave him a much more artificial, tight-lipped smile than her first one. УMy friends call me Coffin, or just Soldier.Ф УAre you here alone, Soldier?Ф УYeahЕ IТm looking for a place to stay, actually. A cheap one.Ф УCome with me, Soldier. I see what you need.Ф Patty tugged him by the arm with a firmness of grip that belied how gaunt she was. The soldier meekly followed, expecting nothing good, on the lookout for suspicious police or military. A fifteen-minute walk took them to a cluster of crimson tents surrounding an open place with a stageЕ like the setup for a rock concert, minus the band. Patty led him past it, to a shack labeled MEMBERSHIP OFFICE.He didnТt try to resist, or think up ways to resist the subtle brainwashing techniques that he knew would follow; he was grateful to them, to Patty. These people, at least, would listen without prejudice. And he would be safer among these large numbers, close to Alien Beach. The soldier was welcomed in every way possible to the Church of Ranmotanii; the only things they asked him to check at the door were his old clothes and freedom of mind. Papua, New Guinea. The Osprey aircraft went down to a few hundred meters above the green, steaming hilltops. Below the aircraft stretched miles upon miles of rainforest valleys, where the Sirians had asked to land and study the environment. They found a relatively open space on the top of a slope, and the Osprey rotated its engines upward for a vertical landing. The air was hot and sticky, with a burnt scent to it - burnt grass from the landingЕ and something more. A nearby village lay in a lower grove, almost invisible from the air. From the straw houses in the distance came excited shouts. УWait inside!Ф Carl told the seven Sirians. УLet the official talk to the people out there first.Ф Carl and an official from Port Moresby, plus an armed officer, exited the landed aircraft and descended carefully down the grassy slope. In the fresh grass were scattered blackened tree-stumps and roots - the area had recently been cleared for primitive farming. About two hundred meters down the slope, where the rainforest began, a line of dark-skinned men began to gather and ascend to meet them. Carl shouted after the government official, who was considerably younger and faster: УI thought there werenТt any isolated tribes left any more?Ф УWe have many isolated valleys like this one!Ф the official replied without turning around or slowing his steps. УOne can still find a handful of tribes that have never seen a white manЕ or donТt watch TV! So they know nothing of space aliensЕ they may not even know anything exists outside this valley!Ф The thought of the Sirians meeting really primitive humans unsettled Carl profoundly. He would rather have the Sirians seeing some sympathetic Australian Aborigines, but that opportunity had been splendidly missed. Apparently, the dry Australian air had deterred the Sirians from pressing for a mainland trek - something about RanmotaniiТs old age had been hinted. This encounter was also completely unprepared by humans - but now there werenТt even any police or army around to protect the Sirians. The line of natives began to wield their shields and spears; they definitely looked and sounded hostile. УDonТt shoot!Ф Carl called out desperately to the officer, who was fingering his rifle. УIf you have to, shoot in the air! We must not make a bad impression in front of the Sirians!Ф To his credit, the officer did not shoot. He told the official something, and moved ahead of him. The officer stopped thirty meters away from the line and shouted some words in a local tongue Carl didnТt know. The native warriors stopped at a shouted command from the village, and another man came marching up to meet the newcomers - a chief or witchdoctor, judging by his ritual head-gear. He had a brief conversation with the officer, who seemed to know their language or its closest equivalent. Carl looked at his watch, then up the slope at the parked Osprey, not entirely unlike a big white bird and probably being mistaken for one by these natives. Carl wasnТt merely nervous, but embarrassed. This wasnТt the face of mankind he had wanted to show his wonderful guests. The official gestured for his attention. УMr. Sayers, weТre lucky. The chief of the tribe happens to have been outside this valley when he was brought to school, so he knows a bit of the language apart from his own. And he happens to own a battery radio. So he knows, vaguely, about the visit from another world. Yes, he very much wants to see them, even if his tribe is scared to let any aliens near the village. УThese are not educated people, Mr. Sayers. When they see something they donТt understand, they react in predictable ways - they turn and run, they attack, or they start a new religion. We will avoid violence, as you and our government donТt want an incidentЕ but I cannot guarantee the safety of the Sirians if they come here. You do understand that?Ф Carl nodded, and used his cell-phone to contact Lazar in the parked VTOL plane. УGive me Ranmotanii,Ф he requested.
LazarТs voice receded over the phone, as it explained the matter to the others. Then the oldest amphibianТs voice sang into the phone, a bit loudly, asking if they could come down and visit the human habitat. Carl tried to explain the special risks involved. Ranmotanii talked in his own tongue to his fellows. They replied, and Ranmotanii declared over the phone that they estimated the risk as acceptable. Carl looked up the green slope and cursed - the Sirians were already starting to walk downhill from the Osprey. And worse still, the local natives had spotted them. Their shouting turned into uproar and instant panic - most of them fled into the village or the forest. The chief of the tribe, a blocky man with long hair, a bone through his nostrils, and an impressive penis-horn covering his private parts, stood wide-eyed and shouted at his tribe, attempting to pick up his scattered ranks. A few brave, trembling men stood by their chief, while the women and children hid indoors. Suddenly Carl recognized the situation, and had to smile. In the frightened natives, he saw what he himself must have looked like - less than two weeks ago - to the Sirians. A trembling, cowering native who bravely overcame fear by the power of his curiosity and intellect. He had no right to call these men primitives - in this company, all humans were. His embarrassment receded, and he stepped aside to let Ranmotanii face the staring tribal chief alone. The natives were of short build, but the amphibians made them seem like pygmies. Two shaking warriors raised their spears; their chief barked at them to step back. The chief held his distance for a minute, intensely studying the seven cone-headed, gray-skinned aliens. The seven amphibians stood very still and silent, as if they instinctively understood the importance of staying calm. Ranmotanii tried a tight-lipped, enigmatic smile. The warriors reeled back one step; the chief stiffened with fear. Very slowly, Ranmotanii stretched out both arms, showing his stalk-like hands to the chief. There came a collective gasp from the natives, and some muttered words. Ann, Lazar, and the British linguist arrived late and out of breath. They joined Carl at the edge of the scene. None of them dared to speak up in the tense atmosphere. Neither humanoids nor natives seemed to be bothered by the humid heat; unlike CarlТs group, the natives did not sweat. The only Sirian signs of overheating were the way their big, flat feet turned darker. Suddenly Ranmotanii, his arms rigidly held forward, turned his head slightly and uttered a name: УMnmnonns.Ф The youngest-looking female with the slight hair made a squeaking noise of approval. Ranmotanii said something; Mnmnonns produced a thin wand-like object from her metallic jacket. She slowly put it to her thick lips, soft fingers curled around it, and blew air into an opening. With her flute - a gift from mankind - she played the first notes of "Yellow Submarine". Ranmotanii tried to sing the words, awkwardly because he stuck to the exact speed of the original recording. УInn th towwwherr I-wa boonn, Livvd amaann who sail-to-seeЕФ The scientists grimaced with bewilderment. What was this? The other Sirians took up singing as well, not doing very well but trying hard. The tribal chief began to grin, and hum along knowinglyЕ he had heard the tune before! RanmotaniiТs eyes moved onto CarlТs group. They joined the song too. Only the official and the officer remained in silent confusion. When they finished singing, the chief was laughing happily, and finally dared to touch RanmotaniiТs hand for a greeting-gesture. An hour later, the baffling meeting abruptly ended. The Sirians took farewell and unceremoniously began to wander back up to the waiting plane, while the tribe sang Yellow Submarine after them. Carl tried to ask the Sirians what the hell had happened. Moanossoans explained it thus: The SiriansТ vests contained measuring instruments to record electromagnetic wave patterns from the surroundings. They had already been measuring the patterns emitted by Carl and other humans, during their time together. But facing very simple cultures, the Sirians could use the measurements as a kind of simple interpreter - reading the mood of the natives by comparing it with known patterns in familiar humans. The music turned out to be the safest known way Ranmotanii knew of making friendly communication and calm the chief down - sonic manipulation, as it were. Their purpose of the village visit was to gather as much measurement data as they could, which then could be used to construct a model of the mental and cultural processes of that small tribe. All they needed were some shifting moods and images to record, and in a simple culture that was quickly done - there wasnТt very much to record or analyze. Lazar cautiously asked them how much time they reckoned was needed to record and analyze the entirety of human cultures. Moanossoans immediately responded, surprising them: the Sirians werenТt really going to record all human cultures - only the ones they found personally interesting, or happened to meet on their way. A little later, when he dared to, Carl suggested to Ranmotanii that their methods of survey seemed arbitrary rather than systematic. The old Sirian reacted quickly, raising his deep singing voice to drown out the planeТs engines. УBuut I aapoloogizzeeeЕ Nott nnooww Carll SaayerrsЕ Nnnow too earllyy. Buut I waant explaain llaterr. Waant beecausseЕ I waant. Cannnot trranslllate.Ф Carl nodded, and gestured for a handshake. Ranmotanii shook it, as was the custom he had learned. УYes, Ranmotanii. Later is good.Ф But УlaterФ seemed anything but good.
DAY 65
He referred to himself as the churchТs УRegional ElderФ and was called УTaniiФ by everyone else: a fat, ruddy, jovial man in his forties resembling a bald, bearded Santa Claus not using enough sun-lotion. He talked for a long time to the soldier, alone. After two hours alone with the jovial man who never stopped talking, the soldier looked for something to drink and an escape route, but there was nothing to drink and Tanii urged him to hear him out. After another grueling two hours - Tanii must have had a camelТs hump concealed somewhere in his robes, for he seemed able to talk forever without so much as a drop of water - the soldier dozed off on the straw mat where he sat. But they shook him awake, and let him hear another two hours of TaniiТs endless gab. Three more times they had to shake him awake. The soldier started to feel a certain giddy lightness to his head. He hadnТt had any headaches for the whole day, no sudden visions. He didnТt reveal the visions to Tanii, though - not that Tanii seemed interested in any but his own. The gist of the manТs address was that Ranmotanii was telepathically linked to the highest members of the cult; they would share their cosmic enlightenment with their cult disciples, but only in small portions so as not to overwhelm them. Also, outside influences were considered a distraction and should be avoided. No cult member was allowed access to newspapers, magazines, radio, TV, or the Internet. Then, suddenly, the session was over. Patty led the soldier to an outdoors dinner party where at least a hundred other cultists gathered. All wearing the same red robes. All chanting that terrible warped nonsense. All eating rice and lentils and beans. All looking a bit skinny under their suntans. All loving each other. He was served a bowl of food... Rice and lentils again. The soldier was exhausted, and the meager food failed to sate his gnawing hunger, but he wasnТt alone or afraid any longer. He felt he might soon be ready to share his experiences with Patty. His legs were starting to get badly bitten by sand flies, and soon the itching was annoying him constantly.
Chapter Twelve
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.
The Sirians had seen the Vietnam War on TV, along with newscasts stretching back to the 1950s.After having concluded their brief visit to New Guinea, they asked to see the country that had been mentioned so often in human broadcasts - broadcasts that were more recent to them, given the long distance to Sirius. The Vietnamese government aired a few objections to stall the unexpected visit, but the U.N. Security Council could clear the group in a few hours. As the Osprey closed in on the green Vietnamese coastline, the seven amphibians seemed to act and talk with greater confidence; they made detailed requests to meet certain persons who had been mentioned in old TV broadcasts from around 1970. They even handed out a printed list of names on a slate, with still images taken from TV. Black-and-white images, blurred, of men and women in uniforms, some staring into the camera - others just walking past. The Vietnamese government received the list, and could soon respond that most of the men and women mentioned were dead, or in one case did not exist - at some point in the past, the Sirians had confused a fictional film with live news footage. Only one man on the list was still alive and prepared to encounter the extraterrestrial visitors at such short notice. The group met him in the secluded park of a retirement home in Ho Chi Minh City. The bus carrying the visitors was taken to a back entrance; the passengers were moved into the park without being seen by outsiders. After a half-hour wait, the requested man came out into the little park. He was a frail old ex-soldier with thin white hair and thick eyeglasses. When the old man first saw the seven tall, gray aliens, he gasped and tried to escape back indoors. Two younger police officers stopped him, insisting that he should come forth to greet the visitors. The four ECT scientists were embarrassed. Carl wanted to ask Ranmotanii to spare the poor old Vietnamese to be frightened by strangers from space. And why him? Just because they spotted his name in a grainy TV broadcast sent out twenty-five, thirty years ago? It took a few minutes, but the old man gathered some courage and made the government men let go of him, by shouting and wielding his walking-stick. Trembling terribly, he staggered the twenty meters down to the benches where Ranmotanii and the others sat waiting - all except for Tmmtenaa, who was preoccupied with studying the layout and architecture of the park. The old man stopped two meters away from Ranmotanii, who rose to greet him. That was a misjudgment - at two metersТ height, he loomed over the little old man and frightened him even more. Yet somehow Ranmotanii did not need instructions. He showed his narrow palms to the old man, a universal gesture saying: I come in peace. The old man stood like frozen. A few mutual opening phrases were uttered, with the British linguist interpreting RanmotaniiТs broken English to the old man. The old man knew about the alien visit - everyone knew. He only asked to know why the Sirians were here, and why they wanted to meet him. Ranmotanii explained about the list, the few people whose names they had been able to pick out of old broadcast newsreels. Then he asked the old man if he had witnessed the real war. The man nodded. Ranmotanii asked him if all the killings they had seen in the broadcasts were real or staged. The old man answered that most of them had been real. Ranmotanii then wondered if the casualty rates mentioned in the enemy broadcasts were accurate. The man replied, not without bitterness, that far more people had been killed than mentioned in any broadcasts. Ranmotanii thanked him for the information, and sat down on his bench - visibly paler than before, his big old eyes more bloodshot than before. His final question came after a minuteТs pause: Was all information of the war broadcast in the full knowledge that someone outside Planet Earth might intercept them? The old man began to shake again. He demanded to be let back indoors and left alone. Carl conceded, and asked the Sirians they should leave to avoid an incident. Lazar took Carl and the linguist aside, and told them in a hushed voice: УCarl, this could be a bad sign. The Sirians donТt trust us completely - thatТs why they dug out a list of old witnesses, to confirm that the war broadcasts were not fakes.Ф УWhere does that leave us in relation to the Sirians, as of now?Ф Carl wondered. УNone of us were directly involved in that war. I actively protested against it.Ф
УFrom their perspective, that doesnТt matter! First we let every advanced civilization within a light yearТs radius or so know about our wars. Then they come over here, and weТre suddenly dying to show how peaceful and civilized we areЕ what would you make of it, had you been one of them?Ф Carl shrugged; Lazar went on. УThat our hospitality might turn into open hostility at the slightest notice. Put simply, they now have witness proof that they are among savages. TheyТve got guts, Carl.Ф They looked in the direction of the Sirians - who were studying the park, as if they had not noticed the discussion at all. Tmmtenaa ran around chasing butterflies.
DAY 66
Delhi, India.
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